Emma traced the edges of her design board with one finger, lost in thought. The studio buzzed gently in the background—soft music, muted laughter, the familiar clatter of tools and pens. It was home now, in every way that mattered.
Then her phone buzzed.
"We're thrilled to invite you as a featured artist at the Venice Emerging Designers Exhibition. Full scholarship, travel, and solo gallery space provided."
Emma read it once. Then again.
Venice.
Solo gallery.
Her.
For a moment, her breath caught in her throat. This wasn't just an invitation—it was recognition. The kind she had never thought she'd be worthy of. She should have felt joy. And she did, somewhere deep beneath the surface.
But what rose faster was the fear.
She looked around the studio. At the corkboard filled with clippings. At the coffee mug Lena had gifted her. At the desk where she and Alexander had once argued over line weights and scale. At the rooftop where so much had been shared.
Leaving would mean stepping outside of everything that had rebuilt her.
Later that evening, Lena found her curled up in the corner nook, phone still in hand, unread message glowing like a dare.
"You got something big," Lena guessed, sliding beside her.
Emma nodded slowly, eyes wide. "Venice. Three months. Solo work."
Lena grinned, full and proud. "That's huge, Em. You deserve this."
Emma didn't smile back.
"I don't know if I'm ready," she whispered. "Everything I've done here… it's because of you. Because of this space. If I leave, what if I can't do it on my own?"
Lena gently took her hand. "You didn't build because of me. You built with me. That means you know how. The skill is yours now. The voice is yours."
Emma's eyes filled, but she nodded.
"You left once," she said softly. "Was it worth it?"
Lena looked away for a moment, then met her gaze again. "It hurt. But yes. Because I saw who I was when I wasn't safe. And I brought that version back with me."
Emma smiled then. Small, trembling, but real. "Then maybe it's time I find out who I am out there."
"You'll always have a key here," Lena added. "And someone who will keep your plants alive."
Emma laughed, wiping a tear. "You always kill the succulents."
"I'll try harder," Lena grinned.
That night, Emma sat alone on the rooftop, knees drawn to her chest, sketchbook balanced in her lap. She drew not buildings, but doors—some closed, some half-open, some swinging wide.
At the bottom of the page, she wrote in careful block letters:
The world is waiting. So am I.